


El malquerer

by bericdondarrion



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: M/M, Retired players having sex the usual, Table Sex, The Year is 2015, and age insecurity, mentions of image insecurity, rough but safe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:07:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24755239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bericdondarrion/pseuds/bericdondarrion
Summary: After a match in 2015, Marat is having questions about his own ability to perform. Luckily, Carlos is there.
Relationships: Carlos Moya/Marat Safin
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	El malquerer

Beginning of the second set of this awful match and Marat started questioning his acceptance into coming to this tepid place of hell. The payment was good, _you are rich as fuck,_ his own voice argued, then he thought of another reason and tried to focus on the match instead. 

Truly, he loved playing matches every time he could and for a few years now, the chances to play competitive tennis had been increasingly reduced either by his own choices or by life itself. In the end tennis had been and still was, somehow, his life, and it was fun, honestly, it just happened that it could also be fucking horrible like when he was shamelessly losing and feeling disgusted with himself, such as at the moment.

For every decent shot he managed, that bastard on the other side found new ways to make him feel like he was 60 and couldn’t hit a single forehand. For every ball he did reach and his bench cheered, he was reminded of the cruel fact that those players were up to 15 years younger than he was and how much rowdier could this damn place get and these stupid rules, _fuck this stupid tournament._

But the worst past was that bastard on the other side indeed, who was 3 years older than Marat and yet looked and felt 10 years younger. They had played against each other plenty back in their day and Marat did hold a positive winning balance against him, but right now he couldn’t remember how he ever managed to do that. 

And fine, he could take defeats, smash his racket against the ground a few times and shake it off but the thing about Moyà was the way he reacted to the match himself. Nothing, there was nothing there. No smashed rackets, and alright, some guys were freaks like that, too swanky for their own good. But Moyà was by far the worst because he really never seemed to be feeling anything at all, no grimaces, no signs of annoyance, no arguing with the umpire, nothing. It made Marat’s blood boil.

But the worst, the truly _worst_ , was whenever he was winning, as he was right now. Absolutely nothing. No victory shout, no annoying _vamos_ like the Spaniards are used to flaunt, not even a smile.

Even when responding to his teammates’ eager high-fives, he looked like he was mentally doing a shopping list instead of playing a high performance sport, a match against Marat Safin. Was it that easy to defeat him now, out of shape and out of breath? Nah, Moyà was always this way, since they were 20 something and Marat was defeating him in the Spaniard’s own city, even then he looked like he couldn’t care any less.

Right now though, right now in late 2015, it was specially humiliating. Yes he felt overweight and old, even though he wasn’t any of those things, he felt that way and Moyà wasn’t helping either because god did he always look so fit? A couple more curses and some smashing of his racket here and then and the match was over and Marat couldn’t wait to leave that damn stadium. He hurriedly packed his things away and left without waiting for anyone to stop him, he tried really hard not to send that ugly look into Carlos’ direction but failed miserably and he’ll regret that.

The way back to the hotel went by in a blur, with a few fans shoved to the side and some Russian that wasn’t suitable for the faint of heart. But there he was, finally, into his bathtub, with a glass of wine, his eyes closed, trying to forget that he was still feeling like a relic. 36 isn’t old by any normal standards but for a sportsman he may as well be dead. But that wasn’t what was bothering him, he was retired after all, no… what was bothering him was feeling like a whale and at the same time seeing Moyà all active and unbothered, as those teammates of his circled him and pulled him into crushing embraces that looked more like they wanted to start an orgy right there rather than a celebration.

They were young and he looked like he was having fun, and he beat him mercilessly, yes, that was definitely the issue.

He drank the rest of his glass’ contents in one go.

2 hours later and a bottle of wine gone, he laid on his bed, wearing only a towel around his waist, watching tv and ignoring the notifications coming from his phone repeatedly. Then the door of his room opened and closed.

No, he wasn’t dating the guy, they didn’t do that kind of thing. They were seeing each other, they had been for almost 2 decades, since that match in Mallorca when Marat ended up fucking him senseless just to make sure that he wasn’t a robot. Yes indeed, he wasn’t, in fact he was pretty damn loud, Marat liked that and he liked it continuously after that.

Becoming fuck buddies had been easier back when they were on tour, and it was easier since they weren’t exclusive. Marat had to share him with a few Argentinians and plenty of Spaniards and he himself had a few dozen people willing to join him in bed every night he so wanted but at the end, Carlos was his favorite, easily top 3 back then. Perhaps it was the fact that outside, to the rest of the world, Carlos acted like a shy and virtuous manners machine, that Marat enjoyed breaking him so much, go a little too hard on him, make him yell and moan and beg and prove that he could feel things and feel he did.

But that was back then, now the dozens were limited to a few and the chances to meet him were scarce and maybe just maybe, they had become something else. Nothing romantic of course, never, he - **_they_ ** didn’t do romance. He just wanted to fuck him until they were too old and unable to move - which is why he had accepted coming there in the first place, he didn’t expect they would have to play against each other and he would end up acting like a jealous teenager while simultaneously feeling old as fuck.

“Did you have fun beating me senseless?” He said without looking away from the television and ok that sounded way too spiteful, 

Carlos sat next to him and took the bottle from his hands, setting it aside, “yes”, he replied and kissed him on the lips while resting some of his weight on the other’s chest.

“Really? You looked like you weren’t even there”, he muttered and it didn’t take long before the extra weight lifted and he could feel the Spaniards’ eyes on him. 

“You know why”, a confession he made a few years into their “relationship”, him too anxious of the public and afraid of showing something that would make him feel judged, feeling a turmoil inside but too scared to show it, and Marat knew he shouldn’t have said that so he didn’t reply.

He really was ruining their weekend of wild sex because he was feeling too insecure, ridiculous.

He spied on the Spaniard sitting beside him without looking at him directly. He noticed as he exhaled and managed a smile, a sign of him mentally accepting his own challenge to get Marat out of his tantrum, “So you were annoyed by my attitude, sounds like old times, wanna make me feel things?” He said, playing with the edge of the towel, biting his lower lip and looking into the Russian’s eyes, really trying for Marat.

“Winning makes you horny”, he grabbed the other’s hand and entwined their fingers before using his free hand to pull him down into a kiss.

Marat tasted very much like wine but Carlos didn’t mind, they had had sex in poorer conditions and whether they remembered all the details the day after or not, they had always enjoyed themselves. The Russian held him firmly but let the other lead otherwise, Carlos decided to explore his mouth the moment they touched lips and seemed eager to get some of that wine himself. He moaned into Marat’s mouth as he got completely on top of him, grinding against his knee involuntarily, arching his back slightly,

“Very horny”, Marat said as soon as they broke apart and Carlos sat on top of him, directly on his waist, with one leg bent on each side of him, smiling as he took his top off and threw it aside, still with his pants on. He ran his palms over Marat’s chest as he moved his hips up and down feeling Marat’s growing erection rubbing against his ass, throwing his head back, already hard himself.

“I really need you”, he whined, “you know I love making you angry on court, I kept thinking of how hard you were gonna fuck me afterwards”, Marat smirked at that, prompting Carlos to raise his hips and helping him out of his pants and boxers,

“Freak”, Carlos chuckled at the remark, untangling the towel, leaving them both completely naked at last. 

Without looking, he found Marat’s dick behind his back and started stroking it, slowly at first, making sure to cover the entire length while also rubbing it against his lower back. Marat was failing at containing his excitement, but he could see that the Spaniard had no intention of taking his time and that he was already using his legs to lift himself and trying to find the right position,

“There’s lube and condoms on the table behind you”, he exhaled,

“It’s ok”, 

“Moyà”, he somehow found some firmness in his voice. When Carlos was like this he could get too crazy, too fast, and hurt himself and as much as Marat prided himself in fucking him senseless indeed, he preferred it when he was driving him crazy with pleasure and not pain.

Carlos pursed his lips and reluctantly stood up to find the items. Marat sighed at the hand leaving his length.

Marat studied him as he did. True, he didn’t exactly have the body of the 24 year old he took the first time but it was better than most 24 year olds out there as a matter of fact, he remained lean with defined abs and,

He heard him groan in annoyance looking inside the contents of one of many of Marat’s backpacks, then angrily turning the tv off, “where and why do you carry pepper spray?”,

“Protection”, Marat replied nonchalantly and Carlos scuffed focused on his task. Marat got out of the bed, reached for the bottle of wine left on the nightstand and joined him, standing right behind him, dick pressing against Carlos tight, making him stop in anticipation and prompting a newly acquired gulp down his throat.

He put the bottle on the table and he saw Carlos focusing his attention on it, “don’t get weird ideas”, Marat said,

Then he used his hand to push lightly against Carlos’ back and the Spaniard bent forward accordingly, holding himself with his hands against the table. Marat reached into one of the front compartments and pulled out a tube and some condoms. He opened the tube and poured the content into his hand, then rubbed it on his member, careful to cover it all. He pushed the backpack off the table, caring little for what could have broken inside.

With his clean hand he reached for the bottle, gave it one last gulp and then poured the remaining liquid all over Carlos’ back, making the other gasp and shiver at the same time, “You just smell too sober for my liking”, 

“Just… already… ya,”, ah yes he liked it when the other forgot his English and started rambling in Spanish. He coated his fingers with more of the oil.

“Tell me”, Marat’s digit circled his entrance teasingly and in reward he got a few whimpers out of his seemingly emotionless rival who bent forward a little bit more, “wouldn’t you prefer someone younger? Someone more active?”, he whispered as he allowed one finger to enter Carlos, making him gasp, trying to support himself with shaking arms,

“No,” it sounded like a whine, 

“No? Your teammates look the part. Someone like that Kyrgios or the one with the long hair”, he worked his finger inside him, in and out in a regular motion, rubbing his inner walls wide before pushing a second finger in and picking up a faster pace. Carlos whimpered and shook his head again,

“You, only you can,” he exhaled.

“But I couldn’t keep up with you on court”, Marat took his time, moving his fingers slowly first, stretching the needy Spaniard to the best of his ability, which was saying something since his ability was a prestigious one.

When he found his prostate and Carlos whimpered louder than before, he started to finger fuck him faster and harder, in and out making sure he hit the spot every time.

“No one, not now- _ah-_ or - Before - never - just you”,

He almost felt bad for making him focus on saying words. He tried to insert a third finger,

“Please”, Marat hummed at the sound of that begging voice he well adored, 

“You aren’t ready”, 

“Please, it’s fine”, Carlos was outright whining at that point,

He was careful when he took his fingers out, he leaned against Carlos’ back bending him almost entirely over the table as the large, blunt head of his cock pressed between his cheeks, nudging at his hole.

“Tell me again”,

Carlos laughed, “Safin, you are hotter than all the 20 years old in the tour combined, if I could live with your dick inside my ass I would”,

He licked his lips before pushing forward, earning a gasp and a “ _fuck_ ” from beneath of him,

“God, as tight as yesterday”, he groaned as the head moved past the ring of muscle. He continued slowly, contrary to popular belief and to Carlos himself, he preferred to take his time, at least at first. Of course, it was always a ride with Moyà, so to speak, and he didn’t anticipate when the other pushed back impaling himself deeper on his cock, “Fucking-”, he grunted feeling Carlos’ ass squeezing him tight all of a sudden and the idiot almost losing balance, trembling and panting beneath him.

He readjusted the Spaniards’ position, rocking against him and pushing him down on the table, penetrating him deeper until he was fully sheathed.

He held Moyà’s arms with his own and slowly pulled out and pushed back in. The first thrust was slow, making sure to find that spot that made the older player moan in pleasure, then picking up a faster pace each time, in and out, until he was slamming him hard against the table, which was thankfully secured into the floor. 

He was of course trying to drive the point home as he slammed his hips forward with each thrust, fingers digging hard against the other‘s hips, leaving immediate bruises… That he was not just as vigorous as those kids but he was also much more, that only he could give Moyà this, so that Carlos would never get any ideas, that he’d never want anyone other than Marat.

He slammed particularly hard at that and made the Mallorcan lose his balance and hit his face against the table. Marat held him firmly by the hips without losing his pace, “you feel so good, you always do,” he breathed against his neck as he went almost completely out and slammed back in, Carlos whined, “tell me I feel good too”,

“Si!”, he was shaking, “so good, the best, that again, harder, Marat,” the Russian happily complied, spread Carlos’ legs a bit wider and lifted his hips just enough to go as deep as he could ever go, as he fucked him in long deep movements. 

Marat reached down, taking Carlos’ cock in his grip as he bit into his right shoulder hard, enjoying the fact that the Spaniard had to play the next day and good luck with that. He saw him curling his fists, gasping for air as Marat stroked him with merciless efficiency, matching the rhythm of his own hips. He licked the droplets of blood that he managed to obtain, mixed with his own sweat that he had covered the Spaniard’s back with, as a rather ugly purple bruise began forming.

Judging by the incoherency of the string of Spanish curses coming from Moyà, Marat knew they were close, he readjusted his position and pushed all the way out, Carlos whining at the sudden emptiness, though gasping soon after as Marat slammed back in as hard as he could. Carlos arched his back, his head resting against Marat’s shoulder as he splashed his release into the Russian’s hand.

Marat followed him, thrusting erratically a few more times, cursing one last time in ecstasy and shooting his load deep into his lover.

He collapsed on top of the Spaniard, still sheathed within him, and stayed there for a few moments,

“Мне кажется, я люблю тебя,” he said in his native tongue without thinking as he noticed the other was practically drifting off, clearly having learnt no Russian despite hearing Marat yelling plenty during sex, 

“Gonna fall off”, Carlos managed to say. Marat released his hips and eased out of him, wincing and berating himself because for all his self proclaimed control, in his elation, he had forgotten to put the condom on.

“Sorry,” he mustered and helped him onto the bed before his knees could give in, and used the towel to clean him off, “I made a mess,”.

“No importa - doesn’t matter,”.

They laid naked in bed for a while and Marat watched him completely drift off to sleep and well, he was gonna need another shower.

He stood up careful not to wake Carlos up. He looked over him and regretted being so callous back there. The Spaniard looked like he had taken a beating and he was gonna have to put something on that shoulder and he did have a match tomorrow morning. They really weren’t getting any younger even though Marat was perfectly pleased having released all the frustration he had built up.

Before he stepped into the bathroom, he heard Carlos as clear as he had said in Russian, “I love you too”.

They probably needed to talk about that later, they likely won’t. 


End file.
